


of that tongue's utterence

by abominableastronaut



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 5+1 Things, Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Emet-Selch (Final Fantasy XIV) Being an Asshole, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Nonbinary Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abominableastronaut/pseuds/abominableastronaut
Summary: Emet-Selch has a number of ways to refer to them. None of them are their actual name.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	of that tongue's utterence

_1._

Many of the stars above Norvrandt remain unnamed, much of the previous knowledge of the sky lost to time and the ravaging of light upon the First. Now, the first astronomers in a hundred years might come from Lakeland, inspired by the dark canvas upon which new constellations can be drawn.

Áine watches the stars from the plaza stretching around the Crystalline Mean, leaning over the railings and listening to the chatter of the amaro below. Near midnight, the plaza is almost deserted, no one nearby save the guards on patrol and the cheery clan hunters making their way back from the surrounding forest. The people of the Crystarium are yet to grow entirely adjusted to the dark, and in a sufficiently poorly lit corner, they can pass an hour or two in silence.

Unfortunately, there are some who are more accustomed to the absence of light. Their visitor wears soft soled boots, but walks with heavy, purposeful steps. He is also - unfortunately for the peace - quite the talker.

“The _Warrior of Light_ , skulking around in the dark. Surely not befitting behaviour for one of your-" He pauses, appraising. Áine very politely doesn’t make faces at him, focussing on the sky. “Stature.”

For someone smaller, perhaps Emet-Selch might be more easily intimidating, even perpetually slouching as he was. Unluckily for him, Áine has several inches on the Ascian and no fear to spare. The Scions in general aren’t an easy group to intimidate, so he has taken to saying whatever comes to his mind and sticking with whatever hits a nerve.

“I’m getting called ‘Warrior of Darkness’ now.” They shrug. “Not that it matters anyway. I’m just doing what’s needed of me.”

“Absorb a lot of aether, do you?”

“I fight things I’m more appropriately equipped to fight than most people. That was just primals, until recently.” They hazard a glance over at the Ascian, who is appraising them in turn. He does not seem overly impressed, but that’s not a new experience for them.

“Your friends might disagree; they practically choke on the reverence they use for such a title.” Done with his inspection of them, he turns his gaze to himself, adjusting his gloves imperceptibly to his satisfaction, before gesturing grandly. “You’d think prolonged exposure would dispel some of the charm. At least they’d be able to learn their storybook hero’s name.”

They resist the urge to react, as a reaction is exactly what he wants. Barely weeks into knowing the man, this is the easiest of his moods to read. “Alphinaud and Alisaie use my name fairly commonly. Thancred too, often enough. As for the others, the Exarch and Minfilia barely know me, and Urianger and I did not spend much time in each other’s company before all this. In fact, this past month we may have spent more time together than in the previous year. I won’t begrudge them being overly formal.”

Emet-Selch considers them, like one might consider a particularly annoying fly before swatting it. The expression on his face might have done to get across the point, the tossing of his head and dramatic sniff bring to mind a frustrated horse. He puts motion into use where a look might do, more theatrical than any man has a need to be. Perhaps they’re too bland for his tastes. It’s still too much to hope that he’ll leave. Boredom isn’t enough of a deterrent, despite his claims to the contrary, and he keeps coming back.

Perhaps it’s not them who is the fly in this scenario.

“So you enjoy being worshipped, then?” _Oh_ , they’re well aware of the wry humour in his voice. Áine grits their teeth. Whether by excellent hearing or an observant eye, the Ascian must pick up on it, for he smirks. _So much for not reacting_.

“No, but I can’t force them to call me by my name. They’re not technically wrong.” Maybe they can salvage this. Politics isn’t their favourite thing, but it seems they should brush up if they’re going to need to start _winning_ conversations.

“Not interested in extending any of your influence towards getting something you want? You do aim to be dreadfully boring.”

“If I’m to begin insisting people do things exactly the way I want, perhaps I should start with you? You’re being awfully hypocritical. I don’t think you’ve referred to any of us by name yet.” For someone who’s never used their name himself, this is an odd argument to have. Still, if they understood the motives of Ascians, much of their recent life might make more sense.

Grinning wider, Emet-Selch opens a portal behind him. “Oh, be my guest,” He calls as he blinks out of existence.

_Well. Did he just- no, surely not._

Perhaps letting Emet-Selch stick around was a mistake.

  
_2._

Then, Rak’tika, when things started to become a little clearer. Or maybe more muddled, with everything upside down in this strange world. Upon their friends returning to Fanow, they try to thank Emet-Selch for his help. Sadly, he’d rather predict the Scions’ next disagreement, as if differing opinions were of issue.

"Says the Arch Bringer of Chaos."

Emet-Selch's answering laugh is almost fond. "Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear."

At first, they’re not sure they’ve heard correctly. That seems to be the theme for the day with Emet-Selch, who threw them a line they'd have called flirting from anyone else that morning. Of course, anyone else wouldn't be an ancient being hiding behind the guise of a long-dead mortal emperor, entrusting them with a strange aetherial device to help find a friend. As it was, they thought it unlikely he would do so.

Once they register that, yes, he really _did_ just say what they thought he said, they reconsider that assessment. He’s still taking, defending himself, but Áine is practiced enough at pretending to listen to someone when their attention isn’t really needed. It’s not a skill that sees much use outside of run-ins with certain gentleman detectives, but it’s easy to let someone talk when they love the sound of their own voice.

It’s… nice, they suppose. They can’t say they’re interested beyond a faint desire to make him shut up for a moment, but it’s harmless. Perhaps the most harmless thing about Emet-Selch, unless he’s attempting some kind of scheme. Watching him now, he shows nothing beyond his usual wry amusement with everything around him. Nothing for them to do but wait for him to show his hand.

They smile at him, openly friendly for the first time since they met. Maybe too friendly, for he pauses for a moment, wide-eyed and almost tripping over his words. He’s quick to catch himself, ever the performer, but even tuning him out Áine finds themselves hyperaware of his visual tells.

They let him rant till he runs out of steam, enjoying the moment for what it is. The leaves rustle in the cool afternoon breeze, the canopy above offering much needed shade from the unending light. The woods are vast and unknowable, a lonely expanse for all it is teeming with life, but the clearing they stand in is made more intimate by a certain inexplicable camaraderie. It remains as they head back to Fanow, shoulder to shoulder with their enemy.

_3._

Amh Araeng signified a change Áine has yet to fully understand. Regardless, they know it’s not a positive one. Ardbert’s concern at their near-collapse notwithstanding, they have yet to stop feeling the buzz of light in their body. Y’shtola and Urianger still aren’t saying anything to their face, and the Exarch avoids anything beyond vague assurances. If they have a plan, clearly they don’t think Áine needs to know about it.

That is not their concern right now, however. They have a missing Ascian on their hands.

There’s some last minute planning required for their advance on Eulmore, nothing that requires secrecy, and Emet-Selch had rather curtly informed the group to notify him in advance of the meeting. He had then promptly disappeared to parts unknown. Hopefully some nearby locale, as Áine was already feeling ill at the idea of aetheryte-hopping to find their missing guest.

Their search thus far has turned up very little, and the closer they get to circling back to the Pendants, the worse they feel. The constant buzzing in their head was annoying enough, but the energy feels near-sapped from their limbs. They stumble down the steps leading into the Musica Universalis markets, attracting a concerned look from Bragi. Áine waves him off and pauses at the bottom of the stairs, taking a moment to rest.

It works to their advantage as they notice a rather distinctive boot dangling from the balconies. It’s owner would be tucked away in a quiet corner of the upper floor, easy enough to overlook. It’s rare to see anyone but the guard up above the markets at this time of day, the residents of the Crystarium hard at work keeping the place running. Few would think to go up there when the heavy warmth of the sun is like a blanket over the upper floor.

They’re not looking forward to climbing the Catenaries stairs to get there, sudden onsets of vertigo a likely risk, but promise to invite him to the meeting they did, and they intend to follow through. Áine takes another minute to steel themselves, gathering what energy they have left. At least if they fall on the stairs to the balcony, no one is going to see it. Theoretically.

They manage to make it to the Catenaries with little incident, at which point the banisters make staggering up the stairs somewhat manageable. Áine gives up on trying to pretend they're not in pain after the first flight. Their legs feel simultaneously like jelly and lead weights, and no doubt they make quite the picture leaning over the iron railing, the task of putting one foot in front of the other increasingly difficult along the climb. That they manage not to fall and alert every tenant in the building is a small miracle.

Legs shaking, Áine takes a moment at the upper floor to breathe. They rub small circles into their thighs, just above the knee. Somehow, their headache feels even worse than before, despite the air this high being quieter and crisp. Every nerve in their body is screaming. _The climb didn't help. Like as not, it encouraged the pain. Everything else does._ A promise is a promise, however, and they make their way onward.

Emet-Selch has his back to them when they spot him, tucked against a post right next to one of the walls, arm resting on the railing. Seated on the balcony, his form is even more curled up on itself than usual. They don't tread lightly, can’t manage stealth right now, but he doesn't turn at their approach.

"Hello." Still nothing. They pause, tilting their head to one side. Is he ignoring them? "Emet-Selch?"

The Ascian in question remains still, and Áine shuffles around to his other side. They find themselves in no mood for games today.

It turns out not to be a game, as the Ascian appears to be asleep. Eyes closed, mouth hanging lax and slightly open, the only indication of life in him is the slight rise and fall of his chest. Emet-Selch has proclaimed his love of sleep on multiple occasions, but Áine has never caught him partaking before. Where some lose tension when asleep, retaining youthful appearance as tension leaves them, he somehow looks older. The familiar lines of stress are compounded by the waxy paleness of his complexion, and his hair falls to limply frame darkly bruised eyes. In short, he looks sick. Perhaps as sick as Áine feels.

Mindful that the Ascian isn’t fond of them at the best of times, Áine kneels before him and reaches out to gently tap his shoulder. They get little more than a groan for their troubles.

“Emet-Selch?” They try again, lightly shaking the man.

“Az’m?” He slurs the word, and Áine isn’t sure what he’s trying to say. Something Garlean perhaps? It almost sounds like Azim, but why Emet-Selch would call the name of the Steppe sun god is unclear.

“It’s Áine. You asked that we find you for the meeting.” They keep the hand on his shoulder, more than a little concerned that he may fall. Being an ancient being able to possess any body he desired, that would be little more than a trifling inconvenience. Even so, said inconvenience would be unpleasant for the unsuspecting citizens below, and he’d been known to sulk over much less.

He makes some other garbled sound, stirring now from his slumber. His eyelids flutter slightly as he wakes, and the heady glint of gold through his dark lashes is almost beautiful. Unfortunately attached to one of their mortal enemies, but beautiful nonetheless. Áine blames that thought on their persistent headache - _clearly I’m not in my right mind_ \- as his lips turn up into a smirk.

No, a smile.

“I-" His eyes flicker open fully as the smile slowly slides from his face. His mouth sets in a hard line. “Oh, so desperate for my company, were you?”

“The meeting,” they repeat.

“The meeting. Ah.” His eyes aren’t quite meeting theirs, focus clearly on something beyond sight. He shifts from his dangerous perch and winces. “Do feel free to go on without me. I can manage perfectly well without your incessant hovering. Better, in truth.”

There really is no time for going round in circles, and they’ll never get a straight answer without being direct. “Are you embarrassed?”

“I find your presence to be an irritant, hero,” he scoffs.

“An irritant.”

“Inflammatory, abrasive. _Sickening_ , if you fancy. Regardless of the phrase, I should much prefer if you were to _leave_ and allow me to make my own way to your Exarch’s chambers.” Truly huffing now, Emet-Selch pulls away from their outstretched arm, restlessly shifting. In such a position as this, they’re blocking off his easiest means of egress. He opens his mouth for what is likely another round of insults. _Trapped cats will scratch, and he’s not entirely dissimilar._

“Most people, upon trying to get someone to like them, wouldn’t declare they find the person so intolerable as to be irritated by their very presence,” they interject. At his deepening scowl, they try a different theory. “Or you’re implying I make you ill.”

Whatever made Emet-Selch so dramatic must have skipped the ability to lie well, because the smug satisfaction in his gaze sits undeniably beneath the bluster. “Must you analyse every word from my mouth? A man can hardly be blamed for his words at such a thoughtless and rough awakening.”

“Far less rough than falling head first into the market stalls if you try rolling over in this poor excuse for a bed, I assure you.” They move back, shifting onto their heels before standing. A tactical retreat. “I need to visit my room before the meeting. Try to improve your mood before then?”

They leave him to splutter after them indignantly, slowly working back the way they came. Áine runs a hand over the railing as they walk, in case they need the support. Falling isn’t high on their list of desires, and falling in front of Emet-Selch even less so.

They make him feel ill? Odd. He does complain at length about the eternal light covering Norvrandt, slowly being removed. Light that is partially absorbed into Áine. It’s easier to think about as they make their way downstairs, hurrying towards the Pendants, headache lifting.

_Huh._ The pain in their body is somewhat relieved, and they feel much steadier on their feet. When they hazard a look at the walkways, they can see the vague shape of Emet-Selch still lurking above. Perhaps the effect goes both ways?

They think about testing such a hypothesis as they head up to their room, setting aside the implications with Y’shtola’s concerns, to be fully considered when they can no longer avoid it.

Whatever Emet-Selch meant to say, the word slips their mind.

_4._

They never thought to associate shame with being a Scion of the Seventh Dawn, but Emet-Selch has a way of making it sound like a curse.

“Scion” is for disappointment, for the moments where they misstep. Walking on eggshells around their temperamental enemy is exhausting, and pointless, and mistakes happen. Even knowing that they don’t have to care what he thinks, it burns nonetheless.

When you spend so much of your life trying to make yourself as inoffensive to others as possible, even knowing it doesn’t matter cannot stop the emotional response to their disdain.

This latest mood has been building since that moment at the bottom of the Ladder, Emet-Selch dangling morsels of truth in their face and expecting them to understand his point. The implications of his words make certain things make sense in the most terrifying of ways. Yet they still can't quite understand it, there's no spark of recognition in their memory, only something beyond that responding against their intentions. From his comments in that conversation, Áine can tell it's as vexing to him as it is to them, even if their desires in this are different.

When Alisaie storms over to them, a thunderous look on her face ( _"What is the Ascian's problem? Why is he even here if he's only looking to pick a fight with whoever happens to be in range?"_ ), they decide to try damage control over avoidance. At least if it's them he's angry with, it won't escalate to sword fights and scorch marks all over the settlement.

They pat the teen’s shoulder gently, commiserating. “I’ll deal with it.”

Alisaie kicks at the ground, stones flying across the dirt. Top Rung is all dirt and stone, and the particles have begun to stick to both their boots, leaving a thin layer of greyish residue. The younger elezen sighs and inspects it forlornly.

“Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

They’re not looking forward to this. Their previous hypothesis seems correct, and they only end up in more pain the longer they spend in Emet-Selch’s company. He only gets more irritable, and their less diplomatic friends are losing what little patience they have with him.

The Ascian in question is leaning against the wall facing Tomra, his only movement hair and heavy coat gently ruffled by the wind. Situated below one of the guard towers on the wall, Emet-Selch has managed to find one of the only patches of shade left in Kholusia. His eyes are closed, and he doesn't bother to look up as they approach, nor after the moment Áine gives him to say something.

The silence is a yawning chasm between them. Áine can feel something precious slipping through their fingers with the passage of time, like sand in a hourglass. That seems to be the mood of late.

There isn't a tactful way they can think of to have this conversation, worked up as they are. Later, alone after it all, they'll have time to regret that like so much else about this day.

"You seem to have upset Alisaie. The impression I received from her was that perhaps you were distressed about something yourself?"

"Really, Scion, if you spent as much time concerned for your quest as you do for your companions, you might actually have made some progress by now." His voice cuts through the air like a knife, and now he chooses to look up at them. They tense unexpectedly, fingers curled into fists around their staff. Their nerves are screaming again, and standing is starting to become a problem.

"I really don't think-"

"No, you _don't_. Instead of taking any initiative, you play around at cooperation, letting these fools waste precious time while your enemy shores up his defenses! If I hadn't seen your sorry efforts to help the people of this doomed world with hundreds of meaningless tasks, I'd think you didn't care at all."

"Don't pretend you do. You only want people to do things your way." That appears to be the wrong thing to say, for the Ascian scowls at them.

"Do not presume to know me. You play at being the hero; seeing these pitiful creatures on their knees with gratitude makes you feel good about yourself. Yet you fail to commit. You would lecture me, who has formed empires from nothing, on leadership? When I offer you my assistance, you instantly turn to suspicion, yet you are content to do nothing while your allies waste time on boosting the egos of spoilt fools.” He spits the words out, contempt on his face.

Áine pleads silently for the ground to swallow them up. Usually the Ascian's moods are easily changeable and far less viscous, but something about this trip - hopefully the last - has everyone on edge. The light inside them beats like a drum inside their head, leaves a dry taste like a pillar of salt in the back of their throat. It’s so strong they could choke on it, and the buzzing in their ears drowns out whatever bile Emet-Selch is still spilling. Embarrassingly, they find that tears are welling up, and they press the back of their hand into them before they fall.

It’s not even the conversation, at the heart of it. It’s nothing they haven’t heard before, and they know in their heart that he has to be wrong, but it’s the final weight that tips the scale. A month of feeling progressively worse with each Lightwarden faced, of Y’shtola’s words in the back of their mind. Of the Exarch and Urianger remaining close-lipped about the whole affair, even as the light within them started to show.

They don’t want to become a sin eater, but they don’t know how this will end otherwise without their death. It’s for the best, but Kholusia is such a lonely place to die.

Surprisingly, Emet-Selch's hand wraps around their wrist, thumb tracking a soothing stroke across their clenched fist. Against their expectations, he's warm, a living thing for all the body he inhabits belongs to a man long since dead. They can feel his inhale across their cheek, stinging with tears. "I-"

" _Don't._ For once in your life, just don't say anything."

Miracle of miracles, he falls silent. They stay like that for a moment, half in the shade of the walls. Áine listens closely to the carrying sounds of bird calls, the bustle of Talos construction, and lets the sea breeze carry away any evidence of tears. They feel drained, but also relieved, a moment of indulgence in the idea of catharsis. Emet-Selch’s tensely wound posture has unravelled as well, like a spring painstakingly uncoiled, back into a familiar slouch. Áine leans into him slightly, soaking up his warmth.

At some point in the passing minutes, he eases an arm around their back, tracing soothing patterns over the fabric of their cape. Such a moment seems too valuable to waste, and they allow this fleeting truce. Perhaps when his face brushes past theirs to rest against their shoulder, they feel him mouth an apology into their collar. Perhaps not. Emet-Selch never lies, after all.

_5._

The title of hero had always made them uncomfortable. More than being called a warrior of light, darkness, or any other title foisted on them by others. Perhaps it came as no surprise then, that the Ascian latched on to that one first.

“Hero” this, “hero” that. Pointing out their name only caused Emet-Selch to smirk at them. Nothing was ever easy with him.

_“I’m well aware of your name, hero,” he’d said. “Your defeat of Lahabrea made you quite the popular topic of conversation at one time.” There was something about his gaze that made them shift uncomfortably, as if he could see right through them. The idea didn’t seem entirely impossible, considering what the Ascians were capable of. Áine continued preparing their breakfast tray, counting slowly down from ten as they picked their preferred teacups from the shelves._

_"And yet, you don't use it." At that, Emet-Selch's smirk grew even wider. It didn't reach his eyes, but his expressions didn't always do so. That they noticed this was their own business._

_"Do you fear you'll forget your own name if you're not reminded of it at all times? Are you testing an old man's memory? Such uncharacteristic cruelty from the saviour of Eorzea!" The Ascian shared a talent for condescension with his fellows. Only with Emet-Selch, there seemed to be a particular glee behind it, as if he were keeping some colossal joke from the world. Why he chose to act in such a manner was baffling, as it did not seem to be a natural habit, but rather a calculated one._

_"It's not about remembering. I don't expect you to like me, as opposed in our goals as we are, but I had hoped you could offer me the courtesy of your respect."_

_He looked stunned for that, his act abandoned for the moment. Their little pocket of the world fell quiet, the only sounds within it the slowly boiling water of their teakettle and the bustle of the markets outside, muffled by the heavy stone walls. It was a rare thing, for his face to lack artifice the same way he claimed his words did. Áine kept a steady eye on him, caught with an inexplicable desire to remember this, and cause it again. They tucked the thought away to examine later._

_“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that respect is earned, hero? Do you think you’ve earned my respect, then?” Back up the mask went. “Was it when you and your fellows nearly got yourselves killed multiple times in the Greatwood? Or perhaps when you barely manage to cover your mistrustful looks with a veneer of politeness whenever I join your little group meetings?”_

_“I learned that everyone deserves respect. To have to earn respect implies committing a grievous error against another, thus having lost it.”_

_They were parroting words now, and for a moment it is as if the bright kitchenette and warm stone around them is cold marble, with them barely tall enough to peek over the wheel of her wooden chair, safely muffled from the world outside tapestried walls with the first person to truly value their company. To expect more from them than to shut up and do as they were told._

_“Do my efforts in self defence and protecting my home lead you to lose respect for me?” They tilted their head questioningly at the man in front of them._

_“Such a statement implies you’ve ever respected me. Very interesting.” They should have known not to expect much from someone so skilled at deflection, and the shrill whistle of the boiling kettle put an end to the conversation._

It hadn’t put an end to the nickname. It follows them across the First, joined by a number of others. Never their name, but the others can rarely grate quite so much. The man takes pleasure in throwing the word out at every opportunity, almost salivating over the opportunity to use it. Sometimes it’s teasing, light and airy. Others, it’s almost fond.

The last time it’s a weapon.

The Exarch - _G’raha, I was right I was right I was right_ \- is unconscious, collapsed on the marble floor of the Halo. They cast the last Afflatus spell they could muster to try and heal that bullet wound, but they can’t tell how successful they were. They can’t even stand, can barely see past the light obscuring their vision, blurring anything more than a few feet in front of them.

When Emet-Selch approaches them, kneeling scant feet away, they wish they had the strength to wrap their fingers around his wretched neck. Something within them cries out for its freedom, knowing that if they were not using the last of their strength to hold it back, that goal would be so much easier.

It would also be a failure, and exactly what he expects. The Ascian claims to pity them, as if they would want it, and Áine is filled with heretofore unknown rage. Is it the light inside them, spilling out now as it shoots pain down every nerve and turns to glass in their veins, or is it the audacity of this man, to lay out their future with such glee?

“Ah, the irony,” He sighs, a giddy exhale, like all of this is some great joke. Rising now from their limited vision, he leaves them on their knees, barely able to hold themselves up on shaking arms. “What Vauthry achieved through bliss, you will achieve through despair.

“But I have overstayed my welcome. I shall look forward to seeing you bring the world to its knees, _hero_.”

The shame cuts through them, _I’ve failed, I’ve ruined everything, I should have stopped you_. They reach fruitlessly for G’raha Tia as the Ascian spirits him away, bidding them farewell with such a pretence of care that they would laugh if they had any breath to spare.

Instead they collapse, letting the concerned voices of their friends wash over them as they finally succumb to the searing pain, mouth opened in a choking, silent scream.

_0._

As their friends vanish one by one, no longer held here by the Exarch’s spell, Áine sets their feet into the ground more firmly. They won the battle, but Hades is far from finished. The Ascian masks surrounding the platform give off their own glow, the only light in the darkness of this void as he manifests again.

“ **No, no, no! I will not let it all be for naught!** ” His voice echoes in the cavernous space, and the platform shakes from the pressure of his form bearing down upon it. Áine readies their staff.

“Enough, damn you!” Thancred breaks through the illusion surrounding them, leaping down and cleaving through the auracite crystal he throws before him, one swing of his gunblade sending shards flying towards Hades. However he got here, the Scions have managed it too, as they join together to power the crystal. The shade’s pained shrieks are deafening, the power he brings to bear against them a suffocating weight.

Urianger cries for them to strike again, and Áine lets Ardbert lead the strength in their arm as they bring all the light within them to the surface and _push_. It feels wrong to watch this, but they can’t look away from the sear of light cleaving through their enemy.

The darkness clears, the bright flash of light dissipating and leaving them blinking rapidly as their eyes adjust. No longer is there a burning star below, but the ruined remains of an ancient city. No longer is Hades before them, but Emet-Selch once again.

Through the hole torn across his torso, they can see an axe of pure light embedded in the stone.

Despite everything from the past two days, and everything that came before that, Áine feels sadness for how it has ended. Not regret, not at the inevitable if they were not to lose everything they loved, but as if there was something to mourn. Perhaps, considering Hythlodaeus’ words, there was.

“Áine.” 

_Oh._ Finally. They look up from the wreck they’d made of his chest, and meet his eyes.

In spite of it all, there’s the faint beginnings of a smile on his face. “Remember us. Remember...that we once lived…”

In vain, they reach for him as he dissipates into motes of light, fading out of existence. In perhaps the least pain they’ve experienced in weeks, they nevertheless feel as if the chest cleaved through was their own. Something has been lost here, laid to rest with the last moments of a dying world. Silent now, the echoing groans of its death rattle at last quieted.

Yet life goes on, and they are not alone. They have their chosen family, their life, and another promise to keep.

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I couldn't stick to five scenarios for 5+1 fics, and then Shadowbringers hit me with a metaphorical bat, so here we are.
> 
> I figured my working title of "How many times do we have to teach you this name, old man?" would be a little too on the nose, so this work's title comes from Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2  
>  _My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words  
>  Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound:  
> Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?_
> 
> Emet-Selch/WoL are certainly not a Romeo and Juliet situation, at least not as I write them, but their relationship is doomed and the man does love his dramatics.


End file.
